


Lost In Transmission

by SkyHighDisco



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Crack, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: There's a bit of Polar Special that never made it into the show.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & James May
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5





	Lost In Transmission

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this long ago, but decided to hold on to it until the opportune moment and since Christmas is practically around the corner, here it is, finally. :)

For someone who spends a great deal of time complaining about cold, James May is in a surprisingly good mood during the ride in Hilux, although most of it is owed to the gin, Jeremy supposes. He isn’t even that annoying as Jeremy initially feared, or annoyed by Jeremy, despite the alarming lack of sleep. 

He had to have actually enjoyed himself which, Jeremy also knew, James would never admit. He would rather have his cock frostbitten.

“ _Rolling down north pole, smoking nothing, sippin’ on gin and juice_ ”, says Jeremy in a rhythmic fashion, not quite appealed by the idea of singing. Not that he couldn’t sing better than Britney Spears without autotune. And not that she ever sings anything significant enough to need it.

James grins from his right, being thrown about on the uneven ground.

“I can one-up that.”

Jeremy scoffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

So James does.

“ _Here the sun is never setting  
Polar bears have us wetting,  
What a dreadful sight  
And I’m not alright  
Driving through the winter wasteland._

 _We can ba-rely start a fire  
Going home is my desire  
Fatigue is so nigh  
That Jezza is high  
Driving through the winter wasteland._”

During James’ gentle, but very tonal improvisation of ‘ _Walking in the Winter Wonderland_ ’, Jeremy’s grin grows until his face starts to hurt, looking over at James whenever he isn’t focusing on looking forward.

“Still not smoking anything”, complains Jeremy anyway.

“I don’t think Canadians would appreciate trail of fags you might’ve left behind all over the ice.”

“Unless we have somewhere to bag them”, responds Jeremy importantly.

“It’s minus ten thousand degrees outside. Do you think one puny lighter would even create a spark in this cold?”

“We have those portable fire makers, don’t we?”

“Barely enough to heat frozen cans, haven’t I just sung so?”

“How do you always find a way to kill the magic, James?”

The banter is about to heat up and take a familiar turn when static announces an incoming contact from one of other cars and true that, through comes a voice of one of the camera crew members.

“Fellas, tread carefully, there seems to be a storm approaching you from two miles west.”

The pair look. No lie, from the mentioned direction there is an impressive silver wall approaching and treading steadily towards them.

“Was that on weather prognosis?” James asks.

“Oddly, no, just be careful, we’re right behind you”, returns the crew guy.

“Holy crap, it’s approaching fast”, says Jeremy, but it’s a taciturn, mild voice reserved for confined spaces. That didn’t mean alarm wasn’t in it.

Indeed. It moved so fast that they could see its movement. Whether they decide to stop or keep going, it would make no difference – the cloud of grey would catch them up.

Voices emerge from the radio transmitter again, this time mixing with odd language clusters of men from Iceland, but the static takes over most of it.

“Say that again?” James brings the walkie up to his mouth.

Voices repeat louder, almost panicked, but static still wins and James only manages to discern something to the effect of ‘get out’.

Then everything flickers and dies out. Including the engine. The car rolls freely for a few more feet before James remembers to pull the handbrake.

Because Jeremy is too busy looking out of the windshield.

“Holy moly!”

The wall of storm is right on them. The car begins to shake with the impacts of the slamming wind and tiny particles of ice and dust. The world disappears in the whirl of silver curtain.

“Shit!” yelps Jeremy, gripping the thankfully locked door handle with one hand and the front of James’ red jacket with the other, feeling the grip of equal, safe firmness return on his arm, squeezing his bicep until it hurt, giving him some sense of foothold.

Toyota shakes like James’ washing machine, even sliding sideways at one point and Jeremy tries not to let panicked squeaks abandon him.

He notices something else and isn’t sure should he interpret it as more or less alarming than their current predicament. In equal, steady gaps, the car is receiving miniature shakes. Like a brief, hiccupping earthquake chopped up in regularly spaced bits.

As the Hilux squeaks with every tremor, the static of the radio becomes harmonic with icy havoc raging outside.

Wordlessly, with a weak gloved finger, eyes wider than saucers, James points upwards through the windshield. Jeremy follows his gaze, jaw instantly dropping open like a truck tailgate.

Out of the mist emerges an obscure colossal mass the size of a huge building. More than twice taller than the BBC’s main offices. It’s so tall that they couldn’t see its top. Snowstorm obscures most of the features, but the two men manage to discern a bulky, elephant-like body attached to a long neck that disappears up, up into the mass of the enveloping raging cloud. It moves slowly, step by step, heavy leg by heavy leg which collide with the ice with a huge thundering impact that shakes the Hilux.

Hissing of tiny projectiles against the body and glass of the car is overwhelmed by a broad, loud blare which makes the car vibrate, and the men to cover their ears at the piercing sharpness of frequencies. Even as it seems that it’s washing over them from all sides, James tries to squint through the windshield to determine it’s direction.

By now, with occasional deep and brief metallic squeaks that remind of those of old industrial engine on full blast, the colossus has already passed them and moved to the other side, getting more and more hidden by the storm. Another blare comes minutes after when the creature had almost completely disappeared, now much more visible in its enormity, and James roughly manages to pinpoint it to somewhere high above, whatever the long heavy neck ended with.

When the rhythmic tremors begin to lessen in intensity and the metal squeaks disappear after what seems like an eternity, the storm begins to lose its power until it completely drags away just as suddenly as it has come, giving the spotlight back to the sun and the clear blue sky while James and Jeremy, stunned to silence, follow it getting farther and farther opposite direction to where it came from.

The engine roars back to existence. The buttons light up, the dashboard blinks back to life and the radio simmers and croaks back to life. Multiple voices immediately assault it, English and Icelandic, but Jeremy and James - having a firm grip of each other the whole time - can only look at each other, all questions and answers equally disposed on the surfaces of a double blue gaze.

* * *

Continuing on their bumpy ride in a jolly red indestructible vehicle, miraculously undamaged save for a few scrapes, they are quiet for a while.

“Do you think it’s squished Hammond yet?” asks James first.

“No idea, but I’m rooting for it.”

“You think it was Santa Claus?”

“No, James, he lives in Finland.”

James shoots him a frown. “What? You tell your kids these lies?”

“Please, nobody would want to live here, not even him. Someone started that trend to make it more exciting and magical for the kids. And besides, if you’re going to hide from the world, you do it in plain sight.”

James has that gentle pensive pout he pulls when he’s either conjuring up a plan or he’s holding back from arguing because he thinks it isn’t worth it.

Jeremy exchanges a few glances between his friend and the icy horizon out of the windshield before succumbing. “Alright, don’t tell me your parents were one of those.”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

“Because Santa Claus lives in Siberia, in Verkhoyansk.”

Jeremy goes goggle-eyed on him. “I take it back, your parents did it even worse. In Stalin’s Death Ring?”

“Yup.”

“So Nikolaj Klauzov is a communist? Is that what you teach your nephews and nieces?”

“Why is that even a question? He wears red and is always so happy to share.”

The bickering continues as normal, no seeming escalation or indicator of its end until they make camp and Jeremy turns into a squirming, mumbling maggot in his multi-layered sleeping bag.

Naturally cameras didn’t capture any of it. And the crew and the Icelanders were farther behind and managed to avoid the storm.

And James threatens to tear the studio down with his bare hands if they put the singing bit into the episode.


End file.
